The city is a wild animal. I am its broken rib. The city is a fallen star woven in the belly of rust. I try to create something out of dust when the words trickle in: What is a dream: What is in a dream: What are dreams made of? We are tenderness woven into clay, woven into glass and we are trying to build a thing. What is a thing: What is in a thing: What is a thing that moves with belief? We are trying to create hope out of things in the air. I grasp a handful of sand and blow, the air plucks the particles and turns them into ice. The multiple icicles gather together to form a heart, the shape of a person’s cupped hands. Then the bones become ice. And the flesh spilt to form ice. And the eyes, glassy and wide on each side of the head are made of ice. We bury the creature in a mound of snow. We wait. We do not know for how long it would take but we wait for the dust to clear. For our hearts to remember the sounds of morning. It is a random day when everything is about to end and the ground opens up itself to swallow the sun,  we are at the edge of a cliff and the sky is burning violet.  The violence shakes the earth’s core and a beauty rises. We birth a creature of fallen stars. Its hands are made of waves.